The Mare

Ginger

She called me sooner than I expected and said she was getting a ride back to Spindletop early, could I come get her. When I got there she was sitting blankly on a bench outside the office. I asked her why she left early and she said they didn’t have anything for her to do and Jeanne had to come back to drop off a horse and pick up two more, so Velvet rode with her. I asked if she had fun and she said, “It was okay” and then, “Ahm tired” and then, “Can we listen to the radio?”

When we got home she took a nap and then wanted to watch TV. Paul asked her questions about the event and she talked about women with dogs and some woman holding a dog up to a horse’s nose. And a gray horse whose rider took him in circles around a jump. That was it. She didn’t go to the barn, not that day or the next.

That night I sat on her bed like I used to do when we still read to her. I asked if anything was wrong. She said no, but that she’d decided something. She didn’t want to ride in a competition.

“Why?”

“Ahh dunno. I just don’t think I do. I don’t want to make my horse jump over things with a lot of people watching, I don’t care about that. I just want to ride her by myself and take care of her.”

“But you can still ride her by yourself. The competition is like an accomplishment; it’s out in the world. It’s like…you can read and write at home, but at school you take tests and then—”

“It’s not like school.”

“But it is. It’s important to show what you can do, to be tested. It’s important in life. It…” Builds character.

She didn’t say anything.

“I think you would feel really good about it. Because I think you could win and then—”

“I don’t think I would win.”

“Why not? Of course you could win. I think you would win!”

“No, Ginger, I wouldn’t!” She sat up as if yanked, facing me in a twist. “All those girls today were better than me and their horses were better!”

“But Pat says you’re really good!”

She didn’t answer immediately. She lay down. Then she said, “Maybe she’s just saying that.”

“Why would she say that if she didn’t think it?”

“To make me feel good about myself. To ‘make a difference.’ ”

And she turned her back to me.

After she left the next day, I went to see Pat. It was late in the day and when I first walked into the barn it seemed like nobody was there. The horses were quiet; maybe they’d just finished eating. I stopped to look at a white one — I think it was the one Velvet had ridden first. It didn’t look at me; it stood facing the back of its stall smelling of shit and brute personality. When it finally looked at me, its body said, Oh. You. “Hi,” I said. “I know I’m not her. But I—”

“Excuse me?” said Pat. She’d just come around the corner with an empty wheelbarrow. There was nothing sarcastic in her tone; she seemed pleased when I said that I’d been talking to the horse, and I don’t think she realized I was being whimsical. “By all means, go ahead,” she said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“It was a short conversation,” I said. “I really came to talk to you.”

“About?”

“Velvet.”

“Yeah?” The woman walked the wheelbarrow down the aisle to an open stall and went in with it. I followed.

“I was hoping you could talk to her. She…I think she’s feeling insecure. She’s not sure she wants to ride in the competition you talked about.”

“Huh.” She began methodically and gracefully shoveling shit. “You have any idea why? Did something happen?”

“Yes, it did. I think it did. Do you know Spindletop?”

She kept working, silently. Her silence answered yes before she did.